


Shockwave

by Rainah (RainahFiclets)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Character Death, Canon Era, Dark fic, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Gen, M/M, Multi, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9101020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainahFiclets/pseuds/Rainah
Summary: Alexander, John, Hercules, and Lafayette were not Washington's aides. That was just their cover story. They were soldiers; highly trained and incredibly deadly. They took on missions too dangerous or too awful for anyone else, committing atrocities in the name of ending the war.Washington won, in the end. But it's not until several years later, when he comes to ask Alexander for a favour, that he stopped to consider the cost of it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is really dark guys. 
> 
> This is a fic about war and war crimes. It includes torture, severe gaslighting and emotional abuse, and some ambiguity surrounding a death. Overall though I consider it to be a story about resilience and how people wrestle with past sins and redemption. 
> 
> Thank you to Oaxara, my beta, and the people who cold read this for me

The day was grey and overcast when George Washington, former General in the Continental Army and newly made President of the United States made a housecall to one of his former aides. For once he was alone - no security to watch him, no petitioners dogging his footsteps, no aids to record every word. This was a private matter, and Washington intended it to stay that way.

Mrs. Hamilton opened the door. "Good evening." Washington bowed before the petite woman. She looked good, healthy after her first pregnancy. Alexander was a lucky man. "My lady, is your husband home?"

"Yes. Please come in, your... Grace." Uncertain of how to address him, she flushed and opened the door.

That was fair. The whole country was still working out how their government was to work, arguing back and forth. He smiled as he tipped off his hat. "They settled on just "Mr. President' last week."

"Mr. President, then, please come in."

"Mr. Washington is fine, Mrs. Hamilton. I have known your husband a long time."

She fluttered about, taking his coat and showing him to the the formal drawing room. "Yes, I know. Thank you, Mr. Washington. May I offer you a drink?"

"That would be lovely," he said, just as Alexander himself came down the stairs.

And stopped dead, staring at Washington as though a wraith had appeared in his drawing room instead of his former general.

"Good evening, Alexander," Washington said simply. He kept his face cool, but inside he was watching careful to see how Alexander would react. 

A single shudder ran through him. Then, with a shake of his head, it was gone. His boy had always been resilient. "Sir. What can offer you this evening?"

"Just a conversation, nothing more." He smiled his friendliest smile, nodding towards the chair opposite.

Alexander's eyes narrowed. "I would prefer to talk outside, sir, if you are amendable. I have been at work all day and the fresh air would be a reprieve." There was no warmth in the words. It sounded almost like a code, a covert request.

One Washington had no problems granting. "Indeed. I could use a bit of fresh air myself."

"Betsey, could you mind Philip while I'm gone?" Alexander softened some when he looked at his wife, kissing her despite the fact that Washington was right there. She flushed a pretty shade of pink, smiling, and darted upstairs as the men put on their coats and headed out into the streets.

It was a dreary day; the streets were quite deserted. Just to be safe, though, Washington made sure to steer them towards the less populated parts of town.

"Your wife seems well," he commented as they walked. "Your son is also healthy?"

"He is," Alexander said shortly. 

Washington frowned. The boy’s tone bordered on rudeness, so sharp and clipped. He couldn’t help but strike back, just a little. “You named him after Eliza’s father, I see. Not your own?”

“I am not ashamed of my father.” Alex’s spine got even stiffer, holding him straight. He had always had fine carriage. “We’ve been corresponding. Betsey and I are planning to name our next son James.”

He could, if he wanted, bring up Lafayette. The man had just named his child _George Washington Lafayette_ , even if his responses to Washington’s missives are often lacking. It would also have allowed him to ask if Alexander was still in contact with his old friend.

But… surely he was. They had gone through so much together, his boys. In deference to that, he decided not to press the issue. “Very good. I wish you a healthy child.”

Alexander nodded sharply. "I would not expose them to this, if I could. What do you want?" That was rudeness. Stark for the fact there was not a shred of warmth in it.

God, Washington missed the warmth. What he wouldn't give for it to be seven, six, even five years ago. Back when his boys had been bright and young and full of promise.

_A summer's night, the beginning of the war. They know they are chosen, and for what, but for now it does not concern them. Any missions they have done so far are small, and defensible in the face of a war. The four lounge around in Washington's tent, eating food and enjoying the summer heat._

_Lafayette is the most shameless. He is French; their codes of modesty are different. Stripped bare to the chest and propped up against Hercules, he reads a book of poetry aloud. Hercules has Alexander's head in his lap, and is slowly stroking back his hair. John is on his other side, leaning in to see the words Lafayette is reading. They form a protective cocoon around Hercules, the one who is deployed tomorrow. As he watches Hercules pulls a piece of bread free and feeds it to Alexander._

_"Boys?" Washington catches their attention. He enjoys the way all four heads snap up, looking at him with respect bordering on ardour. His beautiful boys, all of whom would willingly die for him and the revolution. "If I may have a word with Hercules."_

_"Go on, get your things." Hercules nudges all of them up. "It'll be dark soon anyway, and I'm not letting you steal the last bit of safe sleep I'll be able to get for months."_

_They go, with only minor grumbling. Each salutes Washington on their way out the door. Then he's left with Hercules, who's watching him closely._

_"Knew there had to be a reason you wanted a tailor," he says finally. Hercules is the oldest, and in some ways Washington has noticed the wisest. He definitely seems himself as their protector._

_Fine. Let him be. Washington will use it to win this war. "Tailors hear things," he says simply. "You know your orders?" It's a trick question, a test._

_"Collect information on General Howe and his army. Report the information back to you." Hercules recites perfectly. It's exactly what his orders are, on paper._

_"Good. Those are your orders." They are not his orders. Oh, Washington will take whatever information he can get about troop formations and plots. But that was only the beginning of what he has asked Hercules Mulligan to do._

_"This war for independence depends on you. Do not let Britain dig into their territory. Do you understand?"_

_"Yes sir." Hercules nods._

_"Your work protects the others."_

_He sees this land on Hercules’ face, sees him accept it. And there, he knows, is the key to Hercules Mulligan: he loves his friends, and won’t let any harm come to them. "Yes sir."_

_"Every plot you foil, you protect them. Every officer who doesn't get the chance to attack us, protects them. Every injury against the British makes them less likely to keep fighting. Keep them safe."_

_"I will." It's a vow if Washington has ever heard one._

_A month later, one of General Howe's lieutenants is dead. Hercules reports he had fallen suddenly sick, a weakness in the bowels. It was lucky, as he had been planning to attack the General the next time they moved camp. Two months later: the captains of two Dutch ships have disappeared. Citing the unreliability of British armies, their ships immediately pull anchor and take their custom elsewhere._

_Washington nods to himself, and burns the reports._

The sunlight memory, so seeped in warmth and promise, was a sharp sword compared to now. He wondered how Hercules was doing. Was he married? A father? He knew the man had opened a tailor shop, but his one attempt to establish contact - a request for a quote for a new suit - had been unanswered. That was fair, he supposed. Out of all of his boys, Mulligan's work had been the most removed. Out of the four of them, he was the most likely to push back, to criticise Washington. Hercules required the most blatant manipulation of his relationship with the others to be obedient. That was fine; Hercules didn’t have to like him, only do what he was told.

_"Aren't there others who can do it?" Hercules asks harshly. They're alone in Washington's tent, two years into the war. Hercules has been home for two months, and has just been given notice that he is to open up a tailor shop in Yorktown._

_"Who can open a tailor shop?" Washington says, "Sure." He keeps his voice calm. "But there are none who can do what you do."_

_Hercules concedes him the point, only to gear up for another attack. "I just got back," he says. "It's been a year."_

_And what a year it has been. The army has finally started to turn the tide, winning battles against British troops that found themselves hampered at every turn. They are going to win this. They have to win this._

_Otherwise everything he's done will have been for nothing._

_"Would you rather I send John?" Washington asks pointedly. "Or Alexander?" Neither could pull off such a mission, of course, by each could wreak their own kind of havoc on British-occupied Yorktown._

_"No." When Hercules says the word, it's a sentence all on its own. "No. Don't send them. I'll go."_

_Washington allows himself the barest hint of a smile. "You protect them."_

_"I protect them." Hercules nods, short and sharp._

_"I will give you the rest of the week, until someone has to leave for Yorktown. It is up to you who goes."_

_"I will go. Thank you, General."_

"What do I want?" Washington repeated the question. "There is a new government forming. You know that."

"I know. I read reports of the Continental Congress." 

"You could have attended if you has pushed for it."

Hamilton just shrugged. His disinterest was freighted, Washington knew. Hamilton loved nothing more than politics. And while he'd never pushed for it... sometimes Washington would read an anonymous essay in the newspaper and wonder.

Hamilton wasn't truly his aide during the war. That didn't mean Washington didn't know his mind very well. It was the mark of a good general; to know your own soldiers, so you may know how best to steady their resolve and harden their hearts. The other part was to know your enemy’s soldiers so you may know how best to crush that same resolve.

War was like chess, though not as the books always laid it out to be. They were not fighting for territory, or soldiers, or even lives really. They were fighting to kill the enemy's will.

That's what he was here for today. To see if Hamilton still had will to fight. 

Hamilton muttered, "I don't want anything to do with the government you're creating."

Washington considered that. It's a spark, at least. "And why not?"

"The things you do! The things that-" _that we did_ hangs on his tongue. 

"Would you rather we go back to the British?" Washington challenged him.

"No."

"You joined the Continental Army of your own free will, correct? No one forced you to do anything?" No answer. "War is the cost of freedom, Alexander."

He twitched at the name, a reminder of the familiarity between them.

"What is this about?" Washington asked suddenly. "You don't want to discuss war."

"No, I don't. I've read the treaties. I know what war's about." He hesitated, for just a moment, then spat out, "John Andre."

Ah. John Andre.

"He was a friend of yours, was he not?" Washington said. "Before."

"We met in the army. Just soldiers." The flush on Hamilton's cheek told Washington it was a little more than _just soldiers_. Lovers, then. The empty comfort of men at war; a thing he knew was all too common in the Continental Army. "He was closer with Lafayette," Hamilton says, his voice turning accusing. "And you-"

"Did what needed to be done. He was a traitor."

Stupid Andre. For all his good looks, he didn't have the brains to successfully make the trip across enemy lines with his information. He had been caught, brought back to camp, and handed over to Washington and his boys.

_Andre doesn't look so pretty now. There's blood running down his face, pooling in the hollows of his collarbone. He's barely conscious, head lolling. The only thing holding him upright is the ropes that bind him to a chair._

_"Tell me who sent you," Lafayette says. For the past hour he hasn't said a word outside of his questions. The dark eyes that look down on Andre are filling with only purpose and a calm detachment. Lafayette is not malicious, no. This is even scarier; the calm detachment of one who cares not for reasons or pleading. Or screaming. When Andre does not reply, Lafayette traces a short knife down his face and lets it dig in right beside his eye. "Tell me who sent you."_

_Washington sees it: the moment Andre gives up. "Arnold," he mumbles. "Benedict Arnold."_

_"Arnold..." Washington says in wonder. The traitor._

_"Anyone else?" Lafayette asks, and the knife digs in a little deeper._

_"Just Arnold. Don't know any more-"_

_"His wife? His servants?"_

_"Don't know-" Andre coughs, and splatters blood on his fine buckskin trousers._

_Washington leaves the tent. "Alexander!"_

_"Sir." His Alexander sits outside the tent, his head in his hands. John's arm is around him, the most they can do when in public. Both look like they are about to be sick. Better to send both, then._

_"You leave at dusk. Take John with you. Arrest Benedict Arnold and bring him here to be court martialed.”_

_"Yes sir."_

_"Bring his wife as well, but treat her gently."_

_"Yes sir."_

_"Go and inform the stableboy.”_

_Alexander scrambles up, likely to be glad to be given work. John leaps up to follow him but Washington shakes his head. "Let Alexander get them."_

_Alone, he grabs John's wrist, holding him back._

_"Kill every servant and civilian in the building. They would have known their master's plan."_

_John, to his credit, doesn't react. "Yes sir."_

_"I am counting on you to send a message, John." He rests a hand on John's shoulder, noting how the boy leaned into the touch. How easy his boys are to manipulate. John is desperate for a father, someone to approve of him. So desperate for someone to see all of the rage and pain inside and still love him. “This is how we prevent anyone else from making such errors in judgement: we prove that the Benedict Arnolds of the world cannot protect them.”_

_Alexander will not like it, he knows. Alexander is always one to argue for mercy, for responsibility to the people. Washington had to remind him repeatedly that they were being responsible, by ending this war as soon as possible. But Alexander will cave; while he may push back against Washington, Washington knows he won’t stop John. It will be done, which is what matters, and they can all wash their hands of this business._

Horrible. The screams of John Andre had invaded his dreams for months. Out of all the things he had done in the war, had ordered others to do in the war, giving one of his own soldiers to Lafayette’s hands was one of the blackest stains. He’d _known_ Andre, not well, but he had known the man. Alex and Lafayette had known him even better.

_Lafayette is in his arms, tears streaking down his cheeks. The hold is not as awkward as it should be - Lafayette is as tall as Washington is, but he had crumpled as soon as they were finished and it had been no problem to pull him close. In the corner of the room, the lifeless body of John Andre is still tied to a chair. His empty eyes seem accusing somehow. Asking if his life was worth what they had gotten from him._

_Yes, Washington wants to reply. It is. It has to be, for it is already done._

_He keeps Lafayette turned away from the sight, lets him cry and plead. His voice tumbles forth, in a language Washington doesn’t understand but thinks may be a prayer._

_“Nous soupirons vers vous, gemissant et pleurant dans cette vallee de larmes. O vous notre advocate, tournez vers…”_

_His work takes so much out of Lafayette and yet the boy does it so beautifully: Perfectly in the moment, immovable and ruthless. It is only after that he shatters, falling to his knees and begging mercy for his sins._

_“You did well,” Washington murmurs to his boy. “It was necessary. It was necessary.” He says it again and again, until both of them can believe it._

_“Sir?” John stands at the door. He doesn’t flinch at the bloody scene, just gazes evenly at Washington. Of course; John is both an idealist and a soldier. He will not flinch._

_“Get Alexander,” Washington says. If John hasn’t left yet then neither has Alexander. And with Hercules away, they are only the two he has to work with. John nods, disappearing._

_Lafayette has switched to English, his words barely a breath. “Father… forgive my sins… mercy… father...” His hands, stained red, clutch at Washington’s jacket._

_John and Alexander return. Together they coax Lafayette down to the ground, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. Washington picks up their murmurs, “We’re here, we love you, it’s okay. It’s over now.”_

_Washington clears his throat. He cannot afford to be weak, not in this. His boys need him to be strong, to take their horror and turn it into something they can live with. He can give them that much. “John Andre was captured just over enemy lines. He was hung at dawn.”_

_All three are looking straight at him. One by one, they nod. John Andre was hung at dawn._

Washington shook his head to clear it. He wasn’t in a camp by the Hudson anymore, but walking through the quiet streets of New York as a light rain began to fall. John Andre was in the past, and would stay there. "I knew that paper about him was you, by the way." 

"You did?" Alexander looked shocked. As if by now Washington did not know his words, his hand, his reasoning. 

"The one criticizing me for hanging a 'fine young officer' in his prime? Calling it a 'gross indecency, not of fairness but of justice'? Please, Alexander. I hope you have a higher estimation of my intelligence than that."

"It wasn't right," Alexander maintained.

"No, it wasn't." Did he expect Washington to disagree? "It was monstrous. Awful. A horror. It was _war_."

Alexander’s nostrils flared, breathing sharply in anger. "What you did to Andre, that was not war. What you did to Arnold's servants was not war."

"And what do you think war is?" Washington snapped, finally losing his temper. "Is it marching about bravely with your bayonets? Asking the British _nicely_ to allow us to control our own destiny? We were fighting a war of ideology, and we had to control it. Whatever the cost. Do you know how we took New Jersey?"

"The people rebelled against the British and threw them out," Hamilton parroted back the approved line, then rubbed the back of his neck. "No, that's not what happened. How did we take New Jersey?"

John.

John had been sent to New Jersey.

If Lafayette was one kind of monster, John was another: the ideological kind, so pumped up with promise and ideas that he was willing to do anything to make them come true. "John proved to the people of New Jersey that the British were incapable of protecting them."

It hadn't been anything fancy. Just a series of gruesome murders. One of two every week, their bodies left out in public. No messages, no targeting, the victims of every age, gender, and creed. The British had flooded the city with soldiers, but they began dying too.

And then John had appeared. Young and daring and brash, everything a young hero needed to be. Promising that the British were the ones behind the killing, that Americans needed to protect themselves if the British weren't able. And the people had responded. Once militias had been founded, they had easily taken the jump from protecting their citizens to protecting their citizens’ interests and fighting the British.

Alexander had known, of course, in broad terms. Alexander had known _all_ of his strategy in broad terms. Alexander had been his shining gem...

_"Show me," Washington commands, unrolling a map of the continent. Positions are marked by figures - red for the British, blue for the Continentals. There is much more red than blue on the map._

_Alexander stares at it for a long moment, thinking. "Here," he says finally, indicating a passage east._

_"Not Yorktown?"_

_"It's symbolic, but even if we get it we can't keep it. We need to keep pushing forward, but if we cycle back around we cut off their supplies."_

_"They can ferry them in by boat-"_

_"But not distribute them properly to the rest of the army. Even better. Let Yorktown feast while the rest of the army goes hungry. They'll be ready to revolt by spring.” Alexander looks up, bright and fierce in the lamplight. Triumphant with his plans for victory over the British._

That was why he needed Alexander. The boy was a genius, and a harsh one to boot. While the others had needed prompting to understand their orders, Alexander had never failed to grasp the horrors that were being asked of him. Sometimes he reached for it before Washington did.

 _There is some of me in you,_ he thought as they walked. _As much as you try and deny it, you are as complicit in this as I am._

"Alexander," he said. "I will be frank. I have jobs that need filling, and I would like you to fill one."

"I thought Knox was Secretary of War?" Hamilton asked sharply.

"He is," Washington said. "I am asking you to be Secretary of the Treasury. We need someone who understands human behavior, who can-"

"I understand nothing of human behavior," Alexander cut him off. "Only the worst of it."

"That is what I need." Someone he could trust, someone he understood. Someone who had seen the very worst humanity could be and somehow still made it through. 

"Is that what you came to ask me?" Alexander said as they reached the college. "I'll make it easy for you. No."

"No?" Washington said. Somehow, he hadn't planned on Alexander refusing. He should have; the man was willful to the last. "Alexander, have you ever wanted for anything while in my care?"

"No, sir. I was suitably paid for my depravity." His chin jutted out, daring Washington to contradict him.

"One of the Schuylers as your wife, an honoured position in the army, the... friendship of many powerful young men."

"I will not be grateful for the scraps you sent my way to placate me."

"Is Mrs. Hamilton a scrap? Should I take her away?"

That made him bristle. "You cannot. She is my _wife_. Not even the president, sir, can break a marriage. And you have no boys to do your killing for you now."

"There was a time when you were grateful”. Another memory surfaces, a fall evening.

_Washington walks by their tent, intent on asking Alexander a question about supply chains and promises from Congress. What he sees through the tent flap stops him dead._

_All four of his boys are naked, all engaged in sexual congress. Even those currently watching are clearly involved, from the state of their disarray._

_It stirs something in him. His boys are beautiful, every one. He wonders what it would be like to have Alexander, or Hercules, under him for a night. Or, God, all four of them. Each one breathless with anticipation, eyes wide with adoration..._

_He will not. Washington backs away, brushing the tent flap closed and leaving them to their comfort. He has taken so much from them, he will not add this one last innocence to the list. No matter that he wants to, no matter that he could, and that they would thank him in the moment-_

_It is wrong. He tells himself that again and again, fondling himself to completion in his own tent alone._

He had put it down to war, to men’s urges and a lack of women around. His boys all shared a bond, all leaned on each other throughout the things they did. It would be natural that they turned to each other for other things as well. Though sometimes he wondered…

_Winter. John leaves for South Carolina today. Washington doesn’t know where Lafayette or Hercules are, but Alex is seeing him off alone. He holds the reins of John’s mount, just loitering, talking too quietly for Washington to hear._

_He does see Alexander look carefully around before leaning forward and pulling John in for a kiss. A gentle one, full of snowflakes and longing. He knows then that the two are a little more than opportunity and urges._

_It doesn’t stop him from taking Alexander to the winter ball the year after, and introducing him to each of the Schuyler sisters. Alexander whirls Eliza around the dance floor, looking every bit the dashing hero, while Washington and Philip Schuyler converse at the side of the room._

_“My daughter seems very taken with your aide,” Philip observes. “Is he as clever as he looks?”_

_“Cleverer,” Washington says. It’s true. “The boy will go far, mark my words. When they war ends, we’re going to have a whole new government to staff. Men like Alexander will be the key to building something lasting.”_

_Philip just watches them for a long moment. “They make a good pair,” he says finally._

"I am aware, sir, that the things I have come from you," Alexander said slowly as they walked. "But they were paid for, with a bloodstain on my soul no pastor can forgive."

"Do you write to Lafayette?" Washington asked suddenly. He has no wish to talk of priests or sinning. _I will go to hell for the things I have done. But my country will live in peace._

"Sometimes," Alexander said shortly.

“He writes to me as well.” He letters to Lafayette were always promptly answered, if short. He was healthy. He had accepted a position in the national guard, though it was largely ceremonial. His wife had delivered a healthy son, which he had named after his most esteemed and merciful general. “He seems well.”

“Sure,” Alexander said doubtfully.

“Do you receive such different letters?”

“I do not wish to doubt my general and president,” Alexander replied tonelessly.

“Alexander.” This was not the time for deflections. 

Alexander shot him a look as they crossed the street, his eyes looking suddenly ghoulish as they passed under a lamp. “He does not sleep. His wife does all she can, but there is something gone from the man that she knew. His position in the guard is ceremonial because he will not hold a weapon again. He prays, and he sits in the countryside he grew up in, but it is not enough.”

It was shocking. Washington had to twist, to watch Alexander’s face and ensure he was telling the truth. “If there was any remedy I could provide…”

“He continues to believe in you,” Alex said darkly. “He needs to.”

Washington didn’t know what to say to that. "Hercules lives in the city, does he not?"

"He does. He won't speak to me, not after... not after..." Alexander blinks his eyes against the sudden tears, and Washington knows. Ah.

"This is about John," he said.

Alexander nodded, short and sharp, and _the trees are dead and lifeless when Washington walks into the tent where his boys are working. They look up, as they always do, but there is no adoration there. Years and blood have worn it away. Lafayette looks fearful, Hercules angry. Alexander just looks worn. Tired and resigned. "Sir."_

_He takes a deep breath and says, "John Laurens is dead.”_

_"What?" Alexander flinches at the words, as Hercules and Lafayette exchange looks._

_"On January the 27th, John Laurens was killed attacking British Troops retreating from South Carolina.” The words ring with the unmistakable sound of a command. It will be so. “His father has already been notified to send for his remains."_

_"No..." Alexander is holding Lafayette's hand in his left, Hercules' in his right. "Tell me he's coming home."_

_Washington shakes his head._

_"Tell me he's safe, this is all part of a plan, this is- Just tell me he's safe."_

_Washington kneels down, unable to resist the urge to comfort Alexander. He places a hand on the boy's shoulder, looking him right in the eye. "He will be forever remembered as a hero of the revolution."_

_Angrily, Alexander shrugs out of his hold. "What a lie that is. Tell the truth! Tell the truth for once in your life! How did he die? Is he even dead?"_

_"See that he doesn't hurt himself," Washington says to Hercules, who nods grimly._

"I keep waiting..." Alexander said, shaking his head as they walked slowly back to his home. "I keep waiting for him to come home. I keep waiting for him to stumble in from some British prison camp, missing all his fingers.”

“Surely you know that wasn’t what went on in British prison camps?” Neglect, yes. As many soldiers had died from lack of food or medical attention as gunfire. But not the kind of torture Alex was describing.

“Sure. Like how John Andre was hung at dawn.” He huffed, short and angry. “Whatever we did, I know they did worse."

"They didn't," Washington said, mouth suddenly dry. _He doesn’t know._ His brilliant boy had bought into a lie.

"What?"

"They had no elite soldiers like I did." It was a night for truth, he supposed. "There was precious little torture, on the British side. They did Boston, yes, and a few isolated incidents of soldiers going savage on their own. And I will never ignore the camps. But General Howe was a gentleman to the last when it came to honourable warfare.”

Alexander stopped dead, staring at Washington. He could almost _see_ the wheels turning in Alexander’s head, see him trying to justify the things he’d done in light of his new information. He can’t, and both of them know it. "Then _why_?" Alexander cried out. "Why did you have us-"

"Because it was the only way to win," Washington said. He believed that, he believed it in his bones. What they did wasn't pretty, wasn't right, but it was necessary. 

Suddenly, he felt almost angry. Enough answering questions. Enough lingering on memories. What was done is done, and going back over it would do nothing but hurt Alexander. Instead, he went on a challenge of his own. "How much longer would the war have gone on if we hadn't? A year? Two years? I know you can guess the answer." His master strategist. "How many men would have died? On _both_ sides."

Alexander looked lost. "So you sold our souls to pay for your rebellion," he said softly. "You chose us, made us feel special, made us feel like we had to protect one another. You traded us for this victory."

"Four souls in exchange for a hundred thousand men. It seemed a bargain, at the time." Less so now, with a country to run and a shattered young man who wouldn't meet his gaze. Less so when he thought about his unanswered letters to Hercules, to the empty grave in the Laurens family cemetery.

"The war is over now," Washington said forcefully, to bring his mind again back to the present. "There is a country to run, a beautiful country with so much promise.” There, focus on that. Focus on why they fought the war in the first place. “Will you help me run her?"

"No." It wasn’t as forceful as his earlier refusal. There was no heat behind it. That's how Washington knew it was serious.

"Alexander-"

"I can barely run a law practice," Alexander cut him off. "Hercules, he does better I know, but Lafayette can't sleep through the night. This is what you bought with your war."

"For thousands upon thousands of lives."

Alexander spun to face him. In the dim streetlights his eye shone with anger. "I know why you did it. And if you had asked me honestly... I still would have done it. But for the rebellion, not for you.

"You didn't have to lie to us. You didn't have to, God help me, you didn't have to manipulate us like that. Push us until we weren't just doing it, but _liking_ it." He grabbed Washington's hand, shook it once, and let it go in an abrupt handshake. "I have to go. My wife is waiting for me. Please... do not contact me again."

Washington watched him leave until his green tailcoats disappeared around a corner. 

_What's done is done_

He still had a country to run. Still had a future to create, one that would make the sins of the past seem small. Slowly he started walking back towards the presidential mansion, footsteps heavy in the dark.

_"Sir? You wanted to see me?"_

_"Alexander, come in, have you met Burr?"_

_"Yes, sir." And then, glancing at each other, they say together, "We keep meeting."_

_He dismisses Burr right away. Burr is far too cautious for what he has in mind, far too self controlled. Instead, he focuses on the bright young boy in front of him._

_Twenty-one, a lieutenant by virtue of conscripting his own soldiers and capturing enemy cannons to arm them with. Fluent in five languages, a law student pointed out as one of the most brilliant developing minds on the continent. And brash. Desperate to prove himself. Hungry for war, for respect, for love._

_"What do you want, Hamilton?" he asks, as the boy finishes telling him why he's refused secretary positions._

_"I- sir?" Alexander flounders, meeting his gaze uncertainly._

_"What do you want? Truly? What do you hope to get out of this war?"_

_"Freedom from the British, sir." Washington doesn't dignify that with a response. He tries again, "The ability to command my own company." Still nothing. "To rise up in society. I want to me more than I was."_

_Washington stands, walking away from Alexander to look out the window. “Be more specific.”_

_There’s a pause, and then Alexander says, “I want to marry into an influential family. I was to shape the government from as high a position as I can. I want…” He hesitates, then plows ahead. “I want to be someone. Admirable, favourable, respected. I know that’s not the polite thing to say, but I-”_

_"That I can give you," Washington cuts him off. “Your honesty does you credit.” He doesn’t move from the window, just to see if Alexander will stay quiet and let him speak. Inwardly, he's making a list of how exactly to make Alexander’s star rise; no one ever said he didn’t follow through on his promises. "What will you give for it? To have your heart's' desire?"_

_When he turns, Alexander's eyes are burning with hunger. It sends a thrill through Washington. "Everything."_

_"Everything?"_

_Alexander nods, a single jerk of his head._

_"Then you start tomorrow. Nominally you'll be my aide. Beyond that, there are a variety of ways the war can benefit of a young man of your skills..."_

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is [here](http://thellamaduo.tumblr.com/)
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are loved. I'm particularly proud of this one.


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